


Our Endless Numbered Days

by thorinawesomeshield (veganerwurst)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Five Stages of Grief, I'm so sorry, M/M, Nightmares, Soulmate AU, Teenlock, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veganerwurst/pseuds/thorinawesomeshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Now?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Now, of all times?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Here, of all places?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Sherlock looked at the unconscious boy lying in a bed so big it seemed to swallow him, and asked himself what he could have done in all his life to deserve it to meet his soulmate now.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I know that I wanted to post something happy next, and I swear I am working on it, but this idea just wouldn't leave my mind and I had to get rid of it.  
> So yeah. Angst ahead.  
>   
> Title inspired by this [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kxyUl3DrOLE)

Ever since he was five years old Sherlock had wondered how he would die.

Ever since Redbeard.

First he had nightmares. Nightmares where his parents would finally notice how different he was from the other kids, how he couldn't pretend like Mycroft did, how he wasn't even as smart as him, he would dream that they'd realize that they didn't need him and then he would be euthanized, too.

A foolish thought, but children are easily frightened by this kind of thing.

With time his ideas of _the end_ altered and the list of (more or less) plausible causes of death grew.

A seafight as Pirate. Falling off a tree. Starving in the woods after running away and getting lost. Falling from a building. Poisoned by some dangerous kind of mold. Beaten to death by his dull peers. Anaphylactic shock because of a bee sting. Explosion of one of his experiments. Suicide because everything was too boring and stupid. And so on.

He wasn't even particularly surprised that he'd only made it through sixteen years of his life.

Cancer, though. Cancer was unexpected.

The irony of the fact that the tumour threatening his life was located in his brain of all places was not lost to him either. Not that he would have laughed about this while standing in a room with his crying Mother. Not while listening to the hushed pleas of his father, trying to get some hope from the doctor.

Even he knew that this would've been inappropriate.

Sherlock himself though was strangely calm. In fact he couldn't even remember when he'd last felt so calm in his life. Was this how Mycroft always felt? Detached from all emotions?

Sherlock turned to his brother, curious if he'd finally lifted the secret behind his icy mask only to find that the elder Holmes was not in the least as unaffected by the news as Sherlock had evaluated. There was no coolness, no expressionless staring, not even that unnerving pleasant smile on his brothers face, only shock.

Like he'd never even thought about the possibility of Sherlock getting ill, of Sherlock _dying_.

When Mycroft caught the teen staring, with an expression much more suited to a puppet (or _him_ ), than to the boy who'd never in his life bothered to hide his emotions and thoughts about anything, he could've screamed.

He didn't though, just as Sherlock did not laugh, and struggled instead to bring his own emotions back under control.

And if Sherlock could still see the something that almost looked like fear and regret in Mycrofts eyes, as the brothers stared at each other, he wouldn't tell anyone.  
 

* * *

 

He looked through the glass watching London's streets from the back seats of the black car as Mycroft drove him to the hospital. A sunny day. No rain. No fog. Not even a cloud. Just sun. Not really typical for London in March.

Sherlock just couldn't shake the feeling how surreal everything was. As if it was not him. As if this was not happening.

He opened the window, let the sun shine on his face and breathed the city in. But he was unable to feel any warmth on his face and never lost the feeling that the London he saw was not _his London_.

 _His London_ was a rainy London. _His London_ was a hectic place, a city with an inexplicable pull and magnetism.

Nothing had changed but everything was different somehow. This was a London without him. As if the city had already accepted his departure.

 _This may be the last time_ , he thought and tried to accept it, too.

 

As soon as they arrived Mycroft tried (again) to get his little brother a single room but Sherlock could already see that he wouldn't have any luck with the stern looking nurse who was in charge. "This is an hospital, not a hotel" she would say and Sherlock didn't think that any amount of creepiness and slight threat would let her change her mind. If it wouldn't have been so annoying Sherlock would've respected the woman for her ability to stand up against his brother, because, even though he was still a bit too young to be really dangerous, Mycroft did have the talent to... _persuade_ people. In fact Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if the older Holmes boy would have just taken over the government in a few years.

Sensing that the discussion between the nurse, his brother and meanwhile also two doctors and the Chief of Medicine, would probably take another hour or two, the boy decided to take a look at the room and to-be-roommate. Maybe the hospitals personal would be more cooperative if there was an incident within the first ten minutes of knowing each other, and chances for said incident were statistically pretty high considering how good Sherlock got along with boys his age (with people in general).

The further he went, though, the weirder he felt. At first he just felt kind of.. _nervous_. (And Sherlock did _never_ feel _nervous_. About anything) But with every step he took, with every stair he climbed and every door he passed his heart beat faster, his hands got more sweaty and when he finally reached the door of room 221 he felt as if he'd just ran a marathon. His heart was drumming in his chest, his knees were shaking, his face felt hot and flushed and his breath was more of a panting.

Sherlock had absolutely no idea what was going on. He'd never felt like this, not even when he ran the whole way from school two years ago when he fled from Sebastian. These weren't the symptoms of a brain tumour and furthermore it didn't _feel_ like it. It didn't feel like he was sick, or nervous, or anxious. It was more like as if his body was reacting to _something_. As if it was warning him of something. Something in this room.

Which was idiotic of course. As if there'd be something dangerous in a hospital room at the children's station.

And still... And still Sherlock had learned to trust his instincts with dangerous situations, so he considered to go back to Mycroft for a moment.

But Sherlock had also never been the most rational boy and _dangerous_ meant also _not dull_ and he was curious now, he just couldn't bring himself to go back the way he came from. Couldn't ever run from _interesting_. It was like a strange pull under his skin.

Slowly he reached for the door handle gripping the cold metal breathing deep as he prepared for the unknown danger behind in the room.

There was a nurse watching him curiously. She would ask him in approximately fifteen seconds if she could help him, if he didn't went inside now, so he just opened the door and entered and looked around to find - absolutely nothing of interest about this room. If Sherlock was ever to define the word "anticlimactic" to someone he would describe just the way he felt when he stood in this completely average hospital room, the adrenalin still pulsing in his veins and probably looking like an idiot.

It smelt of disinfectant like the rest of the hospital and the walls had the ugliest shape of green Sherlock had ever seen in his life. The sun shone through some really old blinds right on the two beds and - _Oh._

_Oh no._

Sherlock looked at the bed on the right side of the room, right under the window and suddenly he felt a wave of emotions he'd never felt, and he _understood_. He understood the pull and the danger.

There was a person lying in this bed.

His roommate was his soulmate.

_This can't be true._

_Now?_

_Now, of all times?_

_Here, of all places?_

Sherlock looked at the unconscious boy lying in a bed so big it seemed to swallow him, and asked himself what he could have done in all his life to deserve it to meet his soulmate _now_.

Said boy seemed to feel the connection too, because he stirred just so slightly and slowly opened his eyes.

And as Sherlock sunk into the dark blue there was a sharp pain in his chest and _This is nothing at all like how everybody said it would be_ was the last thing he was able to think before he drowned in the blissful darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd so if you find any mistakes please tell me, too. I'm sorry I didn't sleep this night and english is not my motherlanguage so there'll probably be a few of them.  
> 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock hated it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  __  
> ["Two"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fH_xNW5wSM)  
>   
> 
> Heya folks :)  
> I'm really sorry about the delay! My laptop crashed a few months ago (which was followed by a really hard time for me without any internet D:) and I lost everything I had already written. I had to rewrite everything, and anyone who experienced this should know just how motivating that is. Which is not at all.  
> So anyway here it is, the second chapter, as well as I could reconstruct it.

 

>   _\- Run run run._
> 
> _Like a mantra the word repeated in his head over and over again._
> 
> _\- Faster. I have to be faster._
> 
> _Sherlock couldn't breathe anymore. Everything hurt so much._
> 
> _\- Run. Run. Run._
> 
> _His sight was blurring. He pushed his legs further and further. Again and again._
> 
> _\- Faster. They'll get me. They'll get me._
> 
> _He dared to take a look behind him. They were too close._
> 
> _\- Please. Please let me make it._
> 
> _His legs gave out._
> 
> _He didn't make it._
> 
>  

Sherlock woke with a start.  
His heart was racing and his lungs screaming as if he really just ran for his life.  
He watched the ceiling and tried to calm down.  
He was used to it. Couldn't even remember the last time he slept a whole night through without nightmares.  
Everything was alright. Everything was fine. Everything was just as it always was.

Except for the ceiling.

This was not the ceiling of his room.

Confused Sherlock tried to sit up and remember where he was. (Later he would blame the fall on his head as he fainted for his struggle to connect the points, because not even in his own head he would've ever admitted that half of his brain still was caged in the reminds of the dream, frozen with fear. )  
In the end it was the smell that triggered his memory and suddenly Sherlock was wide awake sitting in the hospital bed.  
The room was still (or again? He had no idea how long he'd been out.) flooded with sunlight and he was still wearing his street clothes, only his jacket and his shoes had been removed. Likely the same day then.  
Also, he was alone in the room. No doctors, no Mycroft - and, most importantly, no boy in the bed under the window.

Sherlock let out a relieved sight. Maybe everything had been another nightmare. Or an hallucination caused by the tumour in his head.

Like - really, the probability of meeting his soulmate now, hell - the probability of him _having_ a soulmate was tending towards zero. Only about fifteen percent of the world population ever met their soulmate in their life and it was unknown if the remaining eighty-five percent simply didn't have one, or if they were just unlucky and never got close enough. Because even though all of the actual witnesses described a very strong pull to their _"other half"_ , this force would only become noticeable if the two parties were in a certain and fairly close distance of one another.  
It was actually kind of cruel. There were people never loving anyone just travelling and searching for their _One_ , never meeting them, always fearing they'd missed them. There were people happily married, with children, living content until they'd suddenly met their mate and everything they had built up would fall apart.  
And still - in the end, everyone wanted their soulmate, everyone romanticised the idea of being bound to another person.

Sherlock got goosebumps at the mere thought of it. And not because he found the idea pleasant or something worth to _long_ for. God, no.  
No, Sherlock didn't want a soulmate. Sherlock didn't need a soulmate. And heaven knew that it was impossible - well, highly improbable - that there would be any person on this planet, actually matching him.

The mere thought of it was ridiculous.

But Fate seemed to be in the mood to laugh about him, because just as he thought this the door opened and a nurse came in half-carrying a certain very pale and tired looking boy. He wore a deep blue cap, that Sherlock hadn't even noticed the first time, distracted by his stupid _emotions_ (no doubt to cover his bald head - as if the lack of eyebrows would leave anything to imagination).

As they passed his bed the boy lifted his head a bit to look at Sherlock, who just closed his eyes and turned his face towards the wall, struggling to keep his nausea under control.

Fate indeed was cruel.

 

The nurse seemed to have informed Mycroft of his brothers waking, because less than ten minutes after she'd helped the boy to lay down on his bed (he even wore this damn hat to sleep!) the man entered the room, and Sherlock had to take a double take at his brothers face because there was pleased smile which really _really_ didn't suited him in any way.

"Please tell me I can get another room."

Sherlock didn't think he'd ever seen his brothers expression changing this fast.

"You can't possibly be serious, Sherlock!"

Sherlock glared at him. "Of course I am."

"You - what? Sherlock are you aware that this boy is your -"

"Yes, thank you Mycroft, I am indeed aware of _what he is_. And I don't want it. I don't want him." Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Sherlock, would you please be reasonable? I know this concept is strange to you but have you any idea how lucky you are? Everyone wants to be one of the few lucky ones that are to meet their _One_. There are people killing just for the possibility of it."

"Well I am not " _everyone_ " _,_ am I!" Sherlock snarled. "I don't want some dull person interfering with my life! I don't want _sentiment_ clouding my mind! I don't want some weak, dying boy, to think he knows me!"

Mycroft got up from the hospital chair and his whole presence shifted to something way more powerful. Suddenly he seemed to be so much bigger than Sherlock. When he opened his mouth to speak his voice had turned ice cold.

"Sherlock, let me be completely clear. You won't change the room, and neither will that boy, and I _will_ ensure this! People with intact soulbonds are almost fifteen percent more likely to recover from grave illnesses, such as yours, in case you've somehow forgotten about the very existent probability of you _fucking dying_ , Sherlock. I won't let you ruin this. I will now return to our parents to bring them the _good news_ and I hope that when I return you will have used that head of yours to actually think about the situation you are in."

Sherlock once again turned towards the wall, not answering and refusing to watch his infuriating brother go, not even looking up when he heard the door clicking softly.  
He felt like an idiot, confining _Mycroft_ of all people with his feelings about the matter. He'd really thought his brother would understand him in this. After all he had been the one who told Sherlock again and again that caring wasn't an advantage. Well obviously he'd thought wrong.

And while Sherlock was lost in his mind palace, searching furiously for a way out of this whole dreadful soulmate business, that he missed the blanket on the other bed shifting when the boy turned his head, staring blankly out of the window.

Neither of the occupants of room 221 slept that night.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock hated it.  
He hated the nightmares.  
He hated the room.  
He hated the bed, the colour of the walls, the smell of disinfectant.  
He hated the night stand and the nurses.  
He hated the boy.  
Oh, how he hated him.  
He hated his looks and his voice.  
He hated that he never got any visitors, instead talking to the nurses and doctors and being _all charming all the fucking time_ , making it impossible to think.  
He hated that he always wore this fucking hat, as if there was anybody he was kidding with it.  
He hated how he anyway looked like death already with his unnatural pale skin, his hollow cheeks, the circles under his eyes so dark, that they looked more like bruises.  
He hated how the boy tossed around in the nights. How he groaned from the pain and how he thought no one could hear his dry sobs in the cold light of the morning.

And he hated the pull. The bond trying desperately to form between them, always _always_ letting him feel the presence of the other. Letting him feel _incomplete_.

_Oh god, he hated it._

But most of all he hated that the boy didn't seemed to be bothered by his presence _at all_. Sherlock ignored him, so he ignored him right back. He hadn't even tried to talk to him like any normal _room mate_ would have. The boy -John, how one of the nurses had called him- let _absolutely nothing_ on, and if Mycroft hadn't confirmed it, Sherlock would think he was going nuts, imagining this whole soulbond thing.

In short, Sherlock despised being in this hospital.

He didn't even know anymore why he'd agreed to the treatment in the first place.  
The chances of surviving alone the first half year laid under four percent ( _nineteen percent if he'd just give in to the pull_ , a voice in his head, that sounded strangely like Mycroft whispered), but even then, he'd have maybe a few years at most.

He should've just stayed home and died in peace instead of suffering this... _this._

He hated it so much already and the knowledge that the worst was yet to come didn't help one bit. The chemo hadn't started yet.

Sherlock turned around and looked out of the window at the other side of the room as he tried to ignore the boy when he had to run into the bathroom to vomit and hating himself at last.

 

* * *

 

 

 

>   _The stairs. Always the goddamn stairs._
> 
> _He hates the goddamn stairs._
> 
> _Up and up and up. He ran and ran._
> 
> _-Faster. I have to be faster._
> 
> _-I have to reach the top._
> 
> _The steps are crackling behind him._
> 
> _But he is fast enough._
> 
> _He'll make it._
> 
> _He's there. He's on the rooftop._
> 
> _-I made it._
> 
> _But the horizon is moving. The building falls._
> 
> _-I ran in the wrong direction._
> 
> _It's too late now._
> 
> _He's falling._

 

Sherlock was getting tired of waking up in cold sweat.  
He was getting tired of everything.  
It was in the middle of the night, but there was no chance of him getting sleep again any time soon. Cautiously he sat up and looked around. The other boy wasn't sleeping either, instead sitting upright in his bed and looking out of the window.  
The moonlight let his face look even more pale, almost translucent, and the shadows of the night painted the bags under his eyes almost painfully dark.

He looked like a corpse.

'I hate you.' Sherlock thought.

"I know." the boy whispered, still looking out of the window.

Sherlock's head hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

The day he lost the first hairs, Sherlock cried for the first time since primary school.

He stood in the bathroom and looked into the mirror.  
There was the taste of vomit in his mouth and two strands of his locks in his hands and suddenly he can't hold back the tears anymore. Once he started, it was as if a dam was broken. He cried because of the unfairness of it all. Cried because he had loved his locks. Cried because he was angry. Cried because he was alone and he was _dying_.

Ten minutes morphed into an half hour. One hour. Two.

This had to be a new low. Cowering in front of a fucking toilet of a goddamn hospital bathroom, crying and wanting his Mommy like a toddler. He was so ashamed of himself but couldn't stop.  
Another hour had been going by without Sherlock leaving the bathroom. There were no tears anymore that he could cry. And as he finally stopped hiccuping and sniffing, he just felt worn out and weak and impossible dry somehow. Like all of his strength had left his body along with the water and now that there was nothing left, all he could do was staring blankly at the bathroom wall.

He didn't know how long he just sat there, staring, when he heard the soft knock on the door. It had felt like an eternity though, and he was surprised when a ray of sunlight came through the small gap as the door slowly opened.  
And suddenly the boy was sitting in front of him, a pair of scissors in his hand.

He said nothing. He didn't gloat. Didn't look at him with pity in his eyes.

Sherlock would have probably screamed at him if he would have done any of this, but he could recognize complete understanding when he saw it, and so he just looked down and nodded numbly.

Neither of them spoke while the boy carefully, almost tenderly cut his hair. Even when every accidental touch felt like an electric shock on Sherlocks scalp.

 

When he was done the boy stood up and actually grinned at Sherlock.

"Cards?"

Sherlock was stunned for a second, before his lips moved of their own accord, turning into a shaky smile.

"I'm Sherlock." he said, and meant _'Thank you.'_

The boys face almost seemed to split into two.

"I'm John." he said, and got his cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is it that writing Angst is always so easy but I'm trying for months now to write a crack fic and it just won't flow at all? I've got the same problem with bagginshield.... Well anyway. Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Please let me know if you see any mistakes (because not beta'd or anything and I just wrote this in one night. Again. I really should be forbidden to be on my laptop after 1 am.)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Though I kind of know about grief, I have absolutely no first- or secondhand experiences with cancer or the treatment so everything in this fic is just like I imagine things to be from movies, wikipedia and articles.  
> If I made any errors please let me know.  
> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
